


keeping the wolf

by toujours_nigel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Biting, Kinktober, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: Remus waits for a bite that never descends, falls asleep with Sirius still kissing his throat pulled long and surrendering.





	keeping the wolf

Sirius puts his teeth in. They’re a line of pressure against Remus’ lower lip, blunt and even and promising at worst a stinging day as the thin skin heals, and very likely only a few minutes, and then even less, as Remus holds still and Sirius performs a panicked retreat that ends with him off the bed and halfway across the room, standing with his back to the wall, his hands clenched into fists in the draping folds of his robes. Sirius hardly ever undresses for sex these days, laughs off Remus’ interest and brushes off his questing hands.

Remus himself is naked, and growing aware of it as a disadvantageous move as he sits up slowly, finds a voice grown hoarse from shouting and says, “Padfoot, it’s...”

“I forgot,” Sirius says, and at the moment that would have slipped into days of stormy remorse and tumultuous petulance when they were young, smiles wryly and says, “too long as a dog, and not nearly enough human touch. Give me a minute and we’ll try again, if I haven’t put you off.”

“You haven’t,” Remus manages, runs the tip of his tongue over the already fading indentations, his hands through his hair, and his mind over the revealed contours of this new Sirius. “Come back to bed.”

Sirius kisses him slow and closed-mouthed, as careful as with his hands on Remus’ shoulders, the scarred length of his back, his narrow hips. He touches the keloid nearly bisecting Remus’ thigh, the curved half-moon of teeth no longer human, and shudders back, brushes apologetic kisses over his forehead, the crinkled corners of his eyes, his cheeks bristling with stubble.

It is kind and considerate and like no Sirius he has ever known, roaring through school and hunting after it, as liable to curse as caress. If this is how prison has changed him, and age, then Remus will learn him again, and again after other alterations: once Harry can live with them, once he is free, once they are old from the years and not simple misfortune. But Sirius had laughed and held his head immobile and kissed him till they were breathless and Sirius had even before always rather hung on to things he oughtn’t have, with his words usually and when Padfoot in earnest always with his teeth.

“You don’t have the right teeth for it,” he says instead, and when Sirius turns a solemn doggy stare at him up from under his eyelashes, adds, “Just don’t transform.”

Sirius laughs and kisses his throat still laughing, presses his mouth closer and harder against his skin and his clothed body against Remus’ welcoming nakedness. Kisses him till Remus is losing his train of thought, touches him till he’s gasping, and raises his head to say in Remus’ ear, “I want to eat you whole. I can’t make promises.”

When they were twenty and Remus hadn’t yet gone to France and further east under orders from Dumbledore, he’d watched hidden in an alley as Sirius crept out of it and pinned their assailant against the wall and lowered his mouth to their throat in the parody of a kiss. He’d raised a bloodied snout from the torn throat and it had fallen to Remus to lift the Death-Eater mask, revealing Wilfred le Fay, and pretend he wasn’t torn between desire and terror. Sirius was a predator any day of the month, any moment he chose.

He had been younger then, and found himself opaque, obscene when revealed. He pulls Sirius back by the hair, presses his wrist to his mouth. “We’re wizards. Anything you do to me I can survive.”

Sirius kisses his wrist, quick and soft, and then longer, sucking the thin skin and bringing blood up, turning it faintly red. His eyes are blown when he looks up at Remus, the pupil swallowing dark. Remus waits tiredly for explanations, recriminations that will cut through the last of his already slackening desire. But Sirius just clears his throat and says, “Keep your wand handy,” and bites him sharp and deep.

It isn’t a kiss. It isn’t mistakable as a kiss. Sirius’ teeth are bright lines of pain clasped around his wrist, pressing between the bones and crushing flesh. It hurts, it hurts and Sirius holds his arm down when he tries to move, holds him immobile with hands and teeth through seconds beating loud in his blood. He is five and thirty-five and every year, every month of pain in between, every scar aching in sympathy, and Sirius’ teeth are still in him pitiless and painful.

“Stop,” he manages, beyond caring whether it is a scream. “Stop, _stop_ , Sirius.”

Sirius spits his arm out and swarms up to pull him into the curve of an emaciated arm, holds him crooning till he stops shivering, and only then says, “Idiot.”

Remus would protest, complain, explain, but Sirius is rubbing soothing circles over his back, and Sirius heart is steady under his ear, and Sirius hates seeing him in unnecessary pain. “I liked the idea of it,” he ventures when his own heart has stopped rabbiting in his chest.

Sirius growls in his throat, sub-vocal, and chuckles when Remus tries to put instinctive distance between them. “I can’t play-act at danger.”

“You never could. Sleep, Padders, it’s fine. It was just a thought.”

“Always perilous,” Sirius agrees. “Moony, you could always ask someone else.”

“With whom would I startle less? Let it go, Padfoot.”

“I never could,” Sirius says, voice slipping lower, and closes his hand tight on Remus’ nape, squeezes. “Moony mine?”

“Sirius?”

“Don’t struggle, whatever you do.”

Remus opens his mouth to explain how very alarming that is, coming out of Sirius’ wickedly smiling mouth, and is stopped with a kiss, and another, and another, slow and deep and drugging till he is pliant, melting into the goose-feather bed and dizzy with love. When Sirius kisses his mouth one last time and then over his jaw and down his throat he lies staring at the animals cavorting on the canopy of the bed, the moulded ceiling, the peeling walls. Sirius’ mouth on his throat is a threat hovering, the laving tongue an unnecessary reminder of the teeth glancing and retreating, a parody of affection.


End file.
